Addendum I: Depression
by Rain in the Morning
Summary: Two months after the robbery, Freddy wakes up and finds out that he wasn't the only one to survive. Rating for language and violence.
1. Awakening

_Disclaimer: I do not own Reservoir Dogs, etc., etc. All I own is a copy of the DVD, which I am shamelessly exploiting for this story's material. But since Tarantino's a fan of homages to movies, I don't think he'd mind._

**Chapter 1: Awakening**

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

The noise was incessant. Relentless. Infuriating. Just soft enough so that he couldn't decide if it was actually there, or if he was just imagining it – although why he would imagine something so fucked up was beyond him. Maybe he was crazy.

The beeping lay on the furthest edge of his consciousness. His mind was working slowly, haltingly, unable to deal with anything more than a repeated sound that he wasn't even sure was real. For the moment, though, the sound was his universe, and he clung to it with every last shred of his awareness.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

It took him a long time to notice the darkness, although that didn't make sense because darkness was the absence of sight, and he couldn't see shit. But that couldn't be true, either. Darkness was something in itself. As his mind struggled to remember how to work properly, he reasoned that until that moment he had been unable to notice anything other than the constant beeping. Not even the darkness. Perhaps the darkness hadn't been there before his brain could process something other than that goddamn beeping noise.

Noticing darkness meant that he could see, just as noticing a sound that was likely a figment of his imagination meant that he could hear. Perhaps there was nothing out there. Perhaps there was no beeping, and no darkness. But the fact that he was aware of both meant that his brain was working, or the parts of his brain that processed visual and aural stimuli, at any rate. The thought gave him comfort.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Touch came next, very gradual. It began with an awareness of temperature, the perception of areas immediately next to his skin. Some of him felt warm and some of him felt cool, and this confused the hell out of him. It was a long time until he was able to figure this out and move on to anything else, but he was not aware of time in the regular sense.

Then came weight and substance. He became conscious of things pressing against him. A warm presence along his back and limbs and head. A lighter weight on his chest. Gravity. Direction. He was lying down – that was it! That was fucking it! He was lying on his back, something underneath him, something… soft, and yielding.

Surfaces. Masses. Textures. _Touch_. The information relayed from his skin to his brain, zipping along his neurons, flaring up in his consciousness, and threatening to ignite in one colossal overload. _Shit!_

He wrenched his thoughts away from all of this and took refuge in the first thing that he had known in his universe: sound.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Coherence. He was lying on a bed with a blanket drawn up to his chest. His eyes were closed. Something, some sort of machinery, stood beside his bed making that motherfucking beeping noise. All of these things suggested that he was in a hospital.

He did not know anything else, but that was not important; he did not need to know anything else. He had made his decision.

He was going to open his eyes.


	2. The Past Revealed

**Chapter 2: The Past Revealed**

The nurse was a pretty young thing. Strawberry blonde, nice lips. Her hands were gentle and controlled as she shaved him, careful around the scar on his right cheek. She had given him a sponge bath earlier. Very thorough, that girl.

Deliciously naughty nurses like her made his current condition much easier to bear. Aside from the occasional flirtation, his hospital stay had been a living hell. For the first couple of days after opening his eyes, he could only stay awake for minutes at a time. As his periods of consciousness increased, he was taken off the IVs and started rehabilitation. A week passed before he had been able to talk with any lucidity, and still longer before he regained his hand-eye coordination and was able to walk. The frequent migraines were a bitch, too.

Freddy hadn't known that so many types of therapy existed in the world. Physiotherapy, occupational therapy, speech and language therapy, not to mention countless appointments with psychologists and social workers, all sitting in the same irritatingly colourful offices, all spewing the same bullshit about how they wanted him to be able to live a normal life. It had been like fucking senior high all over again. He was sick of people telling him how fucking lucky he was; lucky to be alive, lucky to wake up from the coma, lucky to have no lasting brain damage, lucky to have none of the disabilities usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. They really had no fucking clue.

The only worthwhile part of the experience was that the nurses had been very kind to him, especially the young, single ones. He suspected that their typical comatose patient wasn't as glamorous-sounding as a cop injured in the line of duty.

He knew that they whispered about him, wondering what had happened to him. Heck, he wondered that about himself, often enough. His inability to recall the events leading to his present condition had alarmed him at first, but the psychologist had explained that he was experiencing something called psychogenic amnesia, or "memory repression". The thought that his mind was holding back his memories both disturbed and intrigued him. The police who had come to visit had been familiar. He remembered their names and they'd been happy to chat (and tell him how fucking lucky he was, bastards), but evasive in the face of his pointed questions. It had been annoying as hell at first, but he eventually reassured himself that they would explain what the fuck had happened to him once he recovered.

Meanwhile the nurses were having fun with their speculation, no doubt coming up with all sorts of thrilling stories about the events that had led to him taking a bullet to the head. To them he was a mystery man, a motherfucking James Bond. Shit, he didn't mind that at all.

"There." Strawberry Blonde carefully wiped his face with a damp cloth. "You're quite handsome after a shave," she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He enjoyed their kisses, their flirting, their fondling. He could not entirely explain the psychology behind the attraction. Maybe it wasn't just the romantic officer of the law character; it could very well be a pity thing. He was helpless, something to be cared for, like a fucking abandoned puppy. But damn, did he like it.

Maybe a little _too_ much…

_Fuck._

She had noticed.

Strawberry Blonde was staring at his lap, and sure enough there was Little Freddy, standing up for everyone to see.

Now, a hard-on during a sponge bath is understandable, but after one single fucking kiss on the cheek? Was he a fucking teenager? He didn't blush – he had too much self-control for that – but he couldn't help shifting just the slightest bit where he sat on the bed.

The nurse glanced at the vinyl blinds, which she had closed for privacy during his bath. Then she gave a delicious smile and slid into his lap.

Soft, hot, sweet, the taste of a woman's mouth. Her fingers, still damp from shaving him, caressing his belly and chest under the hospital pajamas, lingering on the scars. His hands on her back, running over her buttocks, squeezing her firm thighs. Leaning back against the wall. Hips flush against hers. Eyes closed, lost in touch and taste and smell.

He moved his lips down her throat and traced kisses along her collarbone – his signature move, and one that worked nearly every time. The sound of her breathing was loud in his ears, and the faint, flowery smell of her perfume tickled his nostrils –

_A waitress leaning past him to fill a coffee cup, wafting her cheap floral scent –_

"_...world's smallest violin playing just for the waitresses."_

"… _Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, and Mr. Pink."_

"…_crowd control. They handle customers and the employees…"_

_Intense stabbing pain deep in his gut. Falling, firing, the woman in the car falls back –_

"_I can't believe she killed me, man! Who'd've fucking thought that?"_

"…_been brave enough for one day."_

"…_a fucking set-up or what?!"_

_Sitting in his crummy apartment on a hot afternoon, listening to his Sandy Rogers CD for the third time in as many days. Wondering when the fuck they were gonna call –_

"…_gotta be naturalistic as hell."_

"_Joe, trust me on this, you've made a mistake. He's a…"_

"…_I'm a cop… Larry."_

_An unreal sense of floating – due to the blood loss, some part of his mind notes. Nestled in a pair of arms, a feeling of agonizing remorse, the cold barrel of a .45 Magnum pressed to his cheek and just waiting for his friend to pull the –_

His eyes snapped open and his body launched itself forward in a desperate violent reflex. Distantly he heard Strawberry Blonde shriek as she tumbled to the ground. Every muscle was painfully contracted, mouth strained wide open in a soundless scream, sweat breaking out all over his body. His mind was on fire. _Jesus fucking Christ!_

Clamorous voices, hands pressing him back down to the bed, but to no avail. He dimly heard a lamp crash to the floor. His thrashing arms caught someone in the face and there was a sharp yell. They were holding down his limbs so relentlessly that he knew they would leave bruises, but still he struggled, trying to run away from the images surging through his brain in a raging torrent. Voices urgent and purposeful, countless hands pushing him into the mattress, a needle in his arm as they injected him with something to–

His muscles relaxed, and he sighed in relief as his eyes slid shut. The voices continued, quieter and questioning. They were wondering what had happened to cause such a reaction. But he knew the reason: he _remembered_.

Answers to all of his questions were wedged in his brain, never to leave again. The drug they had given him worked quickly, which was a blessing. He couldn't face the horrifying memories that had flooded his head, not now. There was a reason why his mind had protected him from this – but awaiting him was darkness, sleep, and welcome oblivion.

His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he was scared to death of waking up.

_A/N: "Why?" you may ask. And I answer, "Because in Quentin Tarantino's universe, a bullet to the head isn't always fatal." I'd love to hear what you think._


	3. A Bitter Reunion

**Chapter 3: A Bitter Reunion**

"You have a visitor."

Finally.

He'd known that this would happen. He didn't want to look up, but his curiosity got the better of him. Standing in the doorway behind the nurse was the unmistakeable figure of Holdaway, looking as out of place as a cartoon character against the pastel hospital backdrop. He was wearing his favourite denim vest and a Lakers t-shirt.

"How ya doin', Freddy." The older man dropped into a bedside chair and his eyes immediately shifted to the patient's freshly-bandaged arms. "Long time no see, man. I heard you got yourself into a bit of trouble and decided to pay you a little visit."

Freddy pointedly turned his head away from his friend and listened to the nurse close the door behind her. Yes, he was in a bit of trouble. They were still giving him Styrofoam trays and plastic cutlery, and pumping him full of anti-depressants – but at least they had taken off the restraints. Because he was safer now.

"You ain't gonna tell me shit, are you?" said Holdaway, not wasting any time. "So lemme guess. You got some fucked-up crazy idea that it was your fault the job went straight to hell, right? So you act like some coward bitch and try to take the easy way out?"

"Fuck you, Jim," said Freddy to the wall. "You don't know what I went through, all right?"

There was a clatter as Holdaway pushed back the chair and stood up. "Yeah? Well _fuck _you too, you gutless prick! I was goin' undercover when you were still sucking on your mama's fat titties!"

The door opened and the nurse poked her head in, looking scandalized, but hastily withdrew at the look on Holdaway's face. The interruption seemed to have calmed him down, however, and he sank back into the chair.

Holdaway fumbled out a cigarette, completely ignoring the "No Smoking" stickers on the wall, and after a couple of puffs he spoke again: "Fine, I admit I don't know everything that happened inside the warehouse. Shit, Newendyke, nobody does. But the last thing we want is for you to kill yourself, man. Damn." Freddy stared resolutely at a water stain on the ceiling right above him. "You listenin' to me? The doctors told us most people wake up after two, maybe four weeks, and after that we may as well compost you for a vegetable. You were in that coma for two fucking months. You can't quit on us now, kiddo."

Freddy swallowed. "I won't," he promised quietly. The water stain looked like a seal on a ball. Balancing. Performing. At least it got applause. With an effort he pushed away these dark thoughts. His medication must be wearing off.

He heard the other man let out a deep sigh, and glanced over at him. Holdaway was staring at his bandaged arms again. "Man, what were you _thinking_?" he burst out.

That was not a question Freddy could answer, not yet. He had been thinking many things. Too many things. True, he had used his dinner knife with near-surgical precision, but his mind had been bursting with images. The woman he had killed, for one. An earless Marvin Nash. Mr. Whi– Larry, it was Larry. The carnage in the jewellery store. Two cops riddled with bullets from a couple of Magnum handguns. Mr. Blonde flourishing a lighter. _How 'bout some fire, scarecrow?_

"Hey. Snap out of it, man." Freddy turned his head to look at Holdaway. "You wanna smoke?"

Freddy gave a grateful smile. "Thanks. Motherfuckers won't let me, in here." He pushed himself up to a sitting position as Holdaway dug out a fresh cigarette and a lighter. The first drag steadied his hands and calmed his nerves.

"You're not ready to talk, and that's fine, compadre. We can save the questions." The older man gestured expressively with his hands. "But you gotta have a few questions of your own, you know? I mean after sleepin' for two months of your life…"

Painful focus. Trying to recall the events of his last few moments of consciousness without dwelling on emotion. In emotion lay the danger. Picture the warehouse. What exactly had happened? Where was everybody? Mr. Blonde sprawled by the door. Joe and Nice Guy Eddie motionless and bleeding. Larry groaning in pain on the floor nearby. And…

"What happened to Mr. Pink?"

Holdaway cocked his head to the side. "Mister who?"

"One of the robbers," Freddy clarified. Holdaway was looking at him warily. "Funny-lookin' guy, buggy eyes, kinda young…"

His friend's expression cleared. "Oh, _him_. Arrested outside the warehouse." Holdaway tapped ash onto Freddy's bedside table. "He's been taken to county, never to breathe free air again. Shot a couple cops escaping the store, and one died in hospital. Tough luck for the little prick."

Freddy nodded. It was strangely comforting to know that not all of the thieves had died on his account. "And what about the diamonds?"

"All accounted for." Holdaway grinned, showing every one of his white teeth. "Your Mr. Pink had 'em packed up real nice in a big black bag. Karina's was mighty happy to get 'em back. Saved 'em a bunch of legal work and shit."

Freddy couldn't suppress a bitter smile. "I bet they were. And what about their employees, huh? How'd they fucking feel about that?" He checked himself, noticing that he had raised his voice.

"Don't kick yourself in the ass." Holdaway clapped him on the shoulder, but he shrugged him away.

"I fucked up, Jim," he confessed, looking the older man straight in the eye. "I fucked up real bad. It was my job to make sure everything went according to order – your own motherfucking words."

Holdaway leaned forward in his chair, looking as serious as Freddy had ever seen him. "Listen to me, my man," he said slowly. "I coached you, right? And you say you fucked up? That's an insult to my training. Freddy, every so often things fuck _themselves_ up, and we can't stop 'em. It's like trying to jump in front of a motherfuckin' seven-forty-seven. You won't tell me what happened, that's okay, but I know you didn't fuck up on purpose. That's complete bullshit, man. You did what you thought was right. You get me?"

Freddy shook his head, but not because he disagreed. "It was a fucking bloodbath." He raised his cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers.

The older man was quiet for a while. "Listen up, kid," he said gently, which was unusual for him. "The last thing I want is for you to describe what happened before you're ready." His glanced again at the bandaged arms. "But you know you'll need to make a statement soon, right?"

Freddy nodded. "I know."

Holdaway looked at him intently, as if evaluating him in some sort of way. Freddy stared blandly back. He decided to ask Holdaway what he wasn't telling him – but then the door opened and the nurse walked in. An older bitch, distinctly unimpressed by Freddy's attempts at charm, unmoved by his heated strings of profanity, and tough as nails. She stopped short in horror and exclaimed over the smoking, and Holdaway was bundled out of the room with frightening efficiency.

With both his friend and his cigarette taken away by fucking Nurse Ratched, Freddy was left alone with his thoughts. Dark thoughts. No relief, no distractions.

_A/N: Freddy's last name doesn't appear in the movie credits, so I went with the script spelling "Newendyke" instead of the imdb credits' spelling "Newandyke". The original script seems more canonical, to me. Oh, and the bit where Freddy says Holdaway told him his job was to make sure everything goes according to order – that's from a deleted scene, where Holdaway tells Freddy they can't see the inside of the warehouse._

_Reviews are welcome!_


	4. Freddy's Testimony

**Chapter 4: Freddy's Testimony**

A small office in the hospital had been provided for giving his statement. Holdaway had been instructed to wait out in the hall and stormed off instead, cursing and hitting the walls. But Captain Frankie Ferchetti had accompanied him inside. Waiting there was Frankie's old divisional commander, a man Freddy had never met called Gibson. With him were a few other operatives who Freddy ignored.

He gave his testimony slowly, and as accurately as possible. As the story progressed, he found himself slipping back to using aliases for the robbers. Old habits. There were few interruptions, for which he was grateful, but some parts were especially difficult. The woman in the car. Marvin Nash. The standoff.

Freddy paused and took a drag on his third cigarette, noticing that his hand had strayed to the scar on his right cheek. That was where the bullet had entered, blowing out half a dozen teeth, continuing up through his palate and angling into his brain. The doctors told him that they couldn't cure his severe headaches and he was stuck with them, likely for the rest of his life, but they had medication to deal with that kind of shit. He'd had to lie about how intense they were if he wanted any hope of them clearing him to go back on the job, but what was wrong with that? He'd just suck it up.

He stared down at the twin-cassette tape deck lying on the desk between himself and Gibson, wondering how they would react. The old man cleared his throat and leaned forward, clasping his hands and gazing at Freddy in what was supposed to be a fatherly way.

"Mr. Newendyke, I need to get something straight," said Gibson slowly. "Lawrence Dimick killed Joseph and Edward Cabot because he believed your cover, and was defending you." Freddy blew a smoke ring. Here it came… "But it was Dimick who shot you in the head."

A reluctant nod. "Yeah, that's right."

"The Cabots had been killed seconds before our boys arrived on the scene and found him holding you at gunpoint. So how, Mr. Newendyke, within that very short period of time, did Dimick find out that you were working undercover?"

Freddy was suddenly conscious of the gaze of every single person in that crummy little office focussed on him. Screw it.

"I told him."

"You – Could you repeat that, please?"

"I said, I told him I was a cop," said Freddy, raising his voice slightly. Frankie was staring at him. The other officers shuffled slightly and swapped looks, and a few of them murmured to each other. Freddy honestly couldn't give a flying fuck what they thought.

Gibson gave a nervous little laugh. "Now why would you do a thing like that, Freddy?" he asked with affected friendliness. He kept clasping and unclasping his hands. "All you had to do was wait."

Freddy mashed his cigarette butt into the ashtray and leaned back in his chair. "I don't know what to tell you," he admitted. "It was a… personal reason. I had to do it." How the fuck was he supposed to explain the situation? There was no way in hell these motherfuckers would understand what he had felt, what he'd owed to Larry.

Gibson was staring at him as if he was fucking nuts. "Right," he said faintly. He blinked and shook his head, then leaned over to turn off the recorder. "I think that's all the information we need, Mr. Newendyke." He pushed back his chair and started to get up.

"It corroborates the thief's testimony," one of the other officers remarked.

His buddy beside him gave Freddy a swift smile. "We didn't know if he was making it up or what. And he was a weird little fella." Freddy had to grin at the cop's description of Mr. Pink.

Gibson was heading for the door. "Wait a minute," said Freddy, leaning forward. "When am I back on the job?"

Gibson nodded at Ferchetti. "That's for Frankie to decide. You rest easy, kid." He left the office, followed by the other officers.

Frankie moved over to sit on the edge of the desk, and Freddy looked up at him expectantly. "The doctors decide when you'll be released from hospital, which they tell me will be very soon," said Frankie quietly. "You'll have to continue your therapy for a couple more weeks before I can clear you for light duty. I also want you evaluated by one of our psychiatrists."

"That's bullshit –"

"It's not bullshit, Freddy. I was watching you just now, so don't pretend you don't have some major fucking problems, all right? You were shot in the head, and who knows what could have happened to your wiring?" Frankie took a deep breath and calmed down. "Look, I just want to make sure you're okay. Going undercover screws with your mind. I mean, look at Holdaway."

Freddy smiled, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Okay," he agreed. "If that's what I have to do to get back on the job, I'll see the motherfucking psychiatrist."

Frankie hesitated. "There's one more thing," he said. Freddy waited as the older man unzipped his briefcase and procured a newspaper clipping.

Freddy scanned the article, and sat up in his chair. "Who the fuck…?" he said faintly. It was a rather short article, taken from one of the back pages. The headline: "Police officer shot in head, remains in coma." There was a blurred photograph accompanying it. Freddy looked up at his superior and waved the piece of newsprint. "What piece of shit would sneak into the hospital to take my picture when I'm in a fuckin' coma?"

"Same bitch who wrote the article," said Frankie. "Now listen. The press don't know that you were working undercover, but any one of Cabot's boys could link your injuries to the diamond robbery. Besides, they know your name and your face now. You can't go undercover ever again, Freddy."

"It's a shitty picture!"

"They could still recognize you. We can't take the risk –"

"I had a dozen fucking tubes stickin' outta me, Frankie. And even if someone does read this shitty little social problems newsletter bullshit of a paper, who's gonna recognize me? Every crook I met with is dead anyway, except Pink and he's behind bars." The other man stared down at him with an inscrutable expression. There was that feeling, the same one he'd gotten from Holdaway. They weren't telling him something. But Frankie wasn't going to enlighten him.

"You're not going undercover."

Freddy threw up his hands in defeat. "All right, all right."

Frankie put the article back in his briefcase. "Are you planning on returning to your apartment when you get out of here?"

"Yeah," said Freddy, lighting a fresh cigarette. He was taking advantage of the absence of hospital staff. Even Strawberry Blonde wouldn't let him light up on her watch. "Back to my shit apartment. I owe Holdaway a couple months' rent."

"He's a good guy. He always said you'd wake up." Frankie grinned suddenly. "You know, most guys move in with their mothers after going through something like this."

"My mother left me under a stairwell when I was a couple weeks old."

The other man's smile faded. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter. Fuck the bitch. Better to grow up in a foster home than be raised by a teen hooker or junkie or whatever she was." He couldn't hold back a wry smile. "You know, it's kinda because of her being a piece of shit mother that I became a cop, and that I'm in this fucking situation right now?"

"What do you mean?"

Freddy rubbed the back of his neck. "A cop found me under the stairwell. You ever heard of Pete Kricher?"

The other man frowned. "Sure. He died last year. A heart attack, I think."

"Yeah. Well, this used to be his." Freddy toyed with the ring on his finger. "I put it on for luck during my last job. D'you believe that?"

Frankie smiled. "Well I think you should send a couple of thank-you prayers Kricher's way."

Freddy snorted. "And why should I do that?"

"Because you're still alive."

_A/N: "Dimick" is spelt in a deleted scene with one "m", which also agrees with the script. Of course, Tarantino's character in Pulp Fiction is Jimmie Dimmick. Gah!_

_Here's a Quentin Tarantino tidbit from the DVD commentary, where he gives the reason for Mr. Orange's confession, a Japanese term "jingi": "The closest thing to jingi, as far as trying to describe it in America, is honour and humanity – but that's a weak description of jingi. Jingi is beyond honour. Jingi isn't beyond humanity, but it's beyond honour, with a little bit of humanity in there. The best way to describe jingi (and it's also often used in Yakuza movies), it's the thing you MUST do, even if you don't want to. When Mr. Orange tells Mr. White he's a cop, in that one sixty seconds that Mr. White can do something about it – that's jingi." Hmm… If Freddy knew Japanese, maybe he could've explained himself better to Gibson._

_Next chapter, Freddy actually gets out a little. Reviews are welcome!_


	5. Out on the Town

**Chapter 5: Out on the Town**

Freddy glanced up at the red neon sign and raised his eyebrows. "So what the fuck are we doin' here?"

"What does it look like, man?" said Holdaway, and shoved him through the door.

Freddy was momentarily blinded by flashing coloured lights, and his ears were assaulted by loud, pounding music. "When you said you wanted to get me outta the house…" His voice trailed off as he got a proper look at his surroundings. He had meant to tell the other man that he wasn't in the mood for any games, but was distracted by the svelte silhouettes writhing onstage.

Customers sat broodingly alone or in laughing groups, every pair of eyes flicking towards the scantily-clad dancers. Shadowy figures moved among the tables, balancing trays loaded with drinks and wafting trails of perfume behind them. Holdaway nudged him towards a dark corner, and along the way waitresses and patrons alike greeted his friend cheerfully by name.

"Christ, Jim," whispered Freddy as they took their seats. "Does your wife know about this place?"

The older man gave him a stern glare. "Shit no. And you let anything slip you'll wish I never brought you here."

Freddy placed his hands on the smudged tabletop. "And why did you bring me here?"

Holdaway tucked a couple of dollars into the pocket of a waitress as she gave them two beers. He took a long drink, downing half the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Man, you've just been released from hospital, and you haven't been with a woman for over two fuckin' months." His gaze turned hard and serious. "We're gonna get you laid, Freddy."

Freddy nearly spat out his mouthful of beer. "And the fact that I don't remember those two months –"

"Doesn't count for shit."

Trapped between amusement and exasperation, Freddy could only roll his eyes. He appreciated his friend's concern, even in such a private matter as this, but he wasn't in the mood for Holdaway's meddling. He had far bigger things to deal with at the moment – his upcoming psychiatric evaluation, for one, which was worrying the hell out of him. He was finding it difficult to concentrate too, with fragments of vivid and disturbing memories flashing through his mind without warning. Add to that the severe headaches he suffered from time to time, and his life was a major fucking mess. The last thing he needed right now was Holdaway trying to set him up with a second-rate stripper in a seedy club.

His friend was scanning the dancers with an expert eye, and Freddy glanced around the room, wondering how he could get himself out of this awkward situation. "I'm not in the mood for this, man," he said under his breath.

"Shut the fuck up," Holdaway replied, not even looking at him. "It's better than sitting around in your shit apartment."

"God, I hate that fucking place," said Freddy under his breath. Still, he had to admit that it was better than the hospital, especially now that he had been deemed non-suicidal, was off the meds, and wasn't being watched anymore. Nobody telling him he couldn't smoke or drink, or injecting him with shit or checking his temperature or recording his fucking bowel movements. No more fucking beeping for him. The therapy sessions were frustrating, but Freddy was willing to work his ass of if it meant he never had to go back there again.

There was something he'd been meaning to ask. "Jim," he said quietly as his friend stared at a dancer who was doing some sort of performance with a cane. "What is it you and the guys ain't telling me?" His friend said nothing. "I know there's something goin' on," he persisted. "If it has anything to do with me, I wanna know."

"Not now, Freddy. Right now we got other, nicer things to think about." Holdaway suddenly gave a huge smile, and waved his bottle in the direction of the stage. "Over there, Newendyke. That there is Sandy. She's a fine piece of Swedish ass – or Finnish, or some shit like that. Sexy as hell. _Damn_."

Freddy glanced at the girl, who had sandy-blonde hair. "Jim, I don't think –"

"Hey! Darla!"

A tall Eurasian woman floated over to their table. Freddy hadn't seen her before; she must've been lurking in the corner waiting for an opportunity like this. "What'll it be, Jim?" she purred, bangles ringing as she adjusted her elaborate hairdo. "Something for your young friend, perhaps?" Her almond-shaped eyes raked over Freddy in an evaluating way that he did not like at all.

Holdaway was showing every one of his teeth in an enormous grin. "Darla, this is Freddy. He was in a coma for two months, and needs some female company."

"The poor _dear_." Freddy tried not to flinch as she ran a lacquered nail over his shoulder. "Is there a particular girl he'd like to meet?"

Heat rose to Freddy's cheeks as Holdaway and Darla made the arrangements. Fuck, he didn't even know what he was doing there. He should just get up, pay for his drink, and walk right out that front door. The whole situation was too fucking ridiculous. His appointment with the psychiatrist was in two days, and he still hadn't figured out how to deal with all the shit in his life right now. The last thing he needed was Holdaway's games.

"Come right this way, honey." Darla had a grip on his upper arm like a vice, and Freddy had to struggle not to use one of the escape techniques he had learned in police academy. He glanced at his friend for help.

"Take your time, Freddy," said Holdaway, completely ignoring his discomfort. "And enjoy yourself!"

Freddy glared at the older man, but found himself being steered forcibly towards a small door to the side of the stage. Darla led him up a flight of stairs and down a narrow hall with a bare bulb, and practically pushed him into one of the rooms. "Wait right here," she said before slamming the door in his face.

The room was small, dark, and utterly miserable. The carpet was stained, and Freddy did not even want to think about the bed. He stumbled over to the window and pulled aside the ratty curtains which smelled of cigarettes. He could see the club's neon sign flashing nearby, and its scarlet reflection in the puddles on the street below. No cars were passing; it was late. Freddy briefly considered escaping out of the window, but gave up on that stupid notion. He may as well humour Holdaway. Maybe then the motherfucker would leave him alone. And it really had been some time since –

The door opened, and the girl slipped in. Up close, she looked shorter than when she had been dancing onstage in her six-inch heels, surprisingly small and fragile. Her sandy-blonde hair was red in the light of the neon sign.

"Are you Freddy? Jim's friend?"

He nodded, noting her accent.

"Are you really a detective?"

Freddy nodded again. He couldn't help but smile at the question, and the girl smiled back. It made her look very young. "I'm Sandy." She removed her shoes and walked barefoot over to the bed. She glanced at him to make sure that he was watching, then slid the lacy strap from her right shoulder.

"Wait." Freddy held up his hand. The girl looked at him in confusion, but for a moment he did not know what to say. It felt wrong, all of it. The flickering neon light, the shabby furniture, the faint pounding of the music below, but most of all the complete stranger standing before him. "What – what's your name?"

The girl frowned. "I already told you, I'm San–"

"No, not your stage name," Freddy interrupted. "Your real name."

She looked down at her hands, rubbing the sheer fabric of her skirt between her fingers. "My name?" she whispered. "My name is Ursula."

"You're German?"

"Swiss. I was born near Zurich." Her face relaxed into a smile. "You're sweet. Nobody has ever asked me my name before, Freddy." She walked up to him and boldly placed her hands on his shoulders. This time he did not interrupt her.

_A/N: Oh, Freddy. A bit flustered around the ladies? It doesn't help that he's a complete dork. I mean, he's got comic book posters, action figures, and model painting kits in his apartment. Maybe Ursula would find this level of dorkiness kind of adorable. And is it just me, or does it seem like a visit to a strip joint is a requirement for cheesy cop movies?_


	6. Proper Motivation

**Chapter 6: Proper Motivation**

Freddy hated being back in his shitty apartment. He had nearly gone crazy waiting by the phone during his time undercover, and had painted his entire bedroom white just to waste time. But now he hated the sight of those chalky walls. He hadn't been able to sleep in there since he got back, because it reminded him too much of the hospital ward. One night he'd gotten drunk (against doctor's orders) and smashed the place up with a baseball bat, although he regretted that now. Perhaps Holdaway had been onto something, taking him out.

Nice to just chill, though, and lie back and listen to Kathy Mattea's "A Dozen Roses," and fiddle with the Flash Gordon model he finished painting before the robbery. From where he was sprawled on the sofa, the sight of the Kamikaze Cowboy and Silver Surfer taped up side-by-side on his wall was comforting and familiar.

He'd been cleared for light duty a week ago, and the therapy sessions were much less frequent, which meant he had a lot more free time now. For the past week or so he had flipped through his magazines, but _Sports_ and even _Guns & Ammo_ had lost their appeal after being re-read for the thousandth time. His ashtray was overflowing on the table next to a line of empty beer bottles, and mugs holding the residue of instant coffee littered every available surface. He was reduced to lazing on the sofa and listening to music, reading comics, occasionally watching a bit of TV or a movie, thinking about nothing – or trying to, at least.

Other cops came by to visit him, now that he was close to being fully recovered. He didn't know if they'd drawn lots or what to see who would check on him every night, but someone came by, regular as clockwork. Holdaway had dropped by Saturday afternoon, but Freddy had managed to turn down his offer for another boys' night out on the town. Ursula was nice, but Holdaway was going beyond what he considered the duties of a friend. And it was frankly embarrassing, having someone else take care of that for him.

The other guys weren't so intrusive, but they all acted very odd. At first Freddy thought it might have something to do with him being in a coma. Or perhaps word of his suicide attempt in hospital had spread. But the way they seemed to avoid his eyes, deliberately sticking to neutral topics, made him suspect that they too were hiding something from him. Fuck, did everyone know something he didn't? Okay, granted, maybe he was just imagining things. Maybe he was paranoid after working undercover – but his instincts told him he wasn't.

And every fucking one of them brought food whenever they visited. Freddy didn't know if this was what you did with people who had just gotten out of the hospital. Maybe their wives had pestered them into it. In any case, he'd gotten Tupperware dishes full of everything from stew to lasagne to shepherd's pie. Even confirmed bachelor Frankie Ferchetti had come by with a box of Premium Donuts, which sat half-finished on top of the microwave. As Freddy had never cooked a proper meal in his life, he considered the benefits of hospitalizing himself more often.

Freddy appreciated the company, not to mention the meals. But he got annoyed with the constant string of visitors all trying to persuade him to do what that fucking psychiatrist had said. What the fuck did the psychiatrist know anyway?

Right on cue, somebody knocked on the door. Wondering whose turn it was this time, Freddy pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey there, Newendyke."

McKlusky was standing in the hallway sporting a wide smile. She was a blonde chick who looked a bit like the early drawings of Sue Storm from the Fantastic Four. Computer operator for the LAPD. Sharp as a whip, loved hot dogs and beer, dangerous with a handgun, and a cute little figure. Also married. As far as Freddy was concerned, though, she was just one of the guys.

"What brings you here, McKlusky?" asked Freddy, stepping back from the door so she could come in.

"I figured you weren't taking care of yourself." Her eyes lingered on the empty tin of cold spaghetti that had been his lunch.

Freddy shut the door. "So what?" he drawled. "You cooked me a chicken pot pie?"

There was that huge grin again. "Better. I got you takeout. Stopped by Big Kahuna Burger on my way over." McKlusky held up the paper bag and cardboard drink tray, and they settled on the couch with the food between them. "I didn't know what kind of pop you liked, so I got Sprite. Hope you don't mind," the woman chirped as she unpacked their meal.

Freddy didn't mind, and there were a few seconds of relative silence as they sloppily ate their burgers and fries. Freddy devoured half of his in three bites.

"So," said Freddy after swallowing thickly. "You here to tell me to do what that fucking psychiatrist ordered? Gonna try a different approach from the others? See if it works?"

McKlusky blinked and took a sip of her drink. "I don't know anything about that," she said. "Brad and I just got back from Mexico. The others said there was something you had to do to get back on the job, but they didn't go into any details. Why, what's up?"

Freddy leaned on the large green striped cushion, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. "I was cleared for light duty last week, but Captain Ferchetti said I had to get evaluated by a psychiatrist. So I go to the psychiatrist, and everything's goin' fine. Then the guy, Dr. Moss, finds out that I was raised a Catholic and suggests that I go to a motherfucking confession! Well I said fuck that, so Dr. Moss tells me I can't go back on the job until I confess my sins. Can you believe that shit?" He savagely shoved a handful of fries into his mouth.

McKlusky was frowning at him. "You're a Catholic, Newendyke?" she asked.

"No, I – Not really. I mean, yeah, okay, I was raised a Catholic. But I don't really do that shit anymore."

"You go to church?" asked McKlusky, taking a large bite from her burger.

Freddy stared at her. "Not for a while. Last time I was at a motherfucking confession was over four fuckin' years ago."

"Hmm…" McKlusky wiped her fingers on a napkin and swallowed. "So basically, the only thing stopping you from returning to duty is one measly confession."

"It's a stupid condition given by a stupid psychiatrist, and you fucking well know it."

The woman shrugged, red leather jacket squeaking slightly. "So why don't you just fake it?"

"I dunno," Freddy mumbled. He tossed his empty cup into the corner of the room. "It's just so fucking ridiculous. It'd be giving in or something."

McKlusky was shaking her blonde head. "Don't be like that, Newendyke," she scolded. "I know you wanna come back. You're a good guy. You loved your job. You loved being on the case." She stuffed the remains of their meal into the paper bag, crumpling it up into a ball and lobbing it into the trash. With a sigh, she pulled off her stiletto boots and propped her naked feet up on the arm of his sofa.

Looking at her, Freddy decided that she would answer his questions truthfully. "Listen," he said quietly, "I know the other cops aren't telling me something." McKlusky froze, rummaging for gum in her purse, but she kept listening. "Whenever they see me they look at me funny, and I don't think it's the coma thing. What is it that you guys ain't telling me?"

McKlusky turned her head and looked at him long and hard. Finally she sat up. "Okay Freddy. You got a right to know. You'll find out anyway." She paused, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. "One of the guys you did the job with is called Vic Vega," she told him quietly. "He's also known as Toothpick Vic."

"Vic Vega?" Freddy repeated. "Which one was he?"

"The one you shot," said McKlusky with a twisted smile.

"Blonde."

"Nope. Dark hair."

Freddy waved his hand. "I mean, that was his phoney name. Mr. Blonde."

The woman blinked. "Oh, right… Well anyway, you shot him twice in the chest, and got him in the arm and both legs too." McKlusky paused. "But he didn't die."

Freddy's mind froze up, and his tongue tripped over itself: "Wh– what?"

McKlusky nodded gloomily. "I know. It gets worse. He was rushed to Emergency, sirens blaring, critical condition and everything. Transferred to rehab after two weeks, but he attacked some people and was put in the psych ward. So picture this: while you're still comatose, he cuts through his restraints and escapes from the hospital on foot, killing a security guard on his way out with the guy's own radio. It was a mess. That was three months ago, and we still have no clue where he is."

"The guy's fucking insane," Freddy breathed, horrified that the same man who had so cheerfully mutilated Marvin Nash was now at large. He pulled out a cigarette and let his mind work overtime. Mr. Blonde, Vic Vega, was the madman responsible for the botched robbery. If he hadn't gone crazy and killed the employees, the other cops wouldn't have moved in, nobody would've suspected a set-up, and Joe Cabot would've been arrested without a problem.

Nobody would have died. None of the employees would have died, and none of the innocent civilians. None of the cops, and none of the crooks either. Not Larry, not Marvin, and not the woman in the car. And all because of Vic fucking Vega. If it meant that he could rejoin the force and hunt down this fucking madman, then that was it. He would go to a motherfucking confession.

_A/N: McKlusky appears in the deleted scene "Background Check", which is also in the script if you want to read it (in the script she's Jodie Seigel, Computer Operator). And as for our Mr. Blonde, here's a tidbit from the DVD interview with Michael Madsen: "In the sequel I could be in the emergency room. Of course, Mr. Orange at that point would be dead. He'd be gone. But I'd survive, in the emergency room, because I didn't lose nearly that much blood." I agree with you on one count, Mike._


	7. The Rookie

**Chapter 7: The Rookie**

There weren't many people around the office that late, but Freddy didn't mind. He didn't feel like heading back to his apartment anyway, not after having to go through shit just to get back on the job.

He'd gone to confession to make the psychiatrist happy, though it had been complete bullshit. He hadn't even mentioned Larry, although some motherfucker must have told the bishop a few things because he had ended up talking about Marvin. Somehow he'd started yelling at the bishop, who must've been eighty fucking years old, so that hadn't really gone down well. But then he'd been able to say a bunch of shit about lying all the time and living in fear for his life and all that Hollywood crap. The old man ate it right up, and he had finally been cleared for duty.

The other cops had acted real careful around him for the first couple of days, as if they were afraid he was going to drop unconscious in the middle of the floor for no fucking reason. It had been annoying as hell, but with good behaviour and approval from his therapists he eventually got his wish: he was joining the investigation to find Vic Vega. Ferchetti had warned him that he wouldn't be doing any field work at this point, and so now he was catching up with his research. There was a very thick file with Vega's name on it that he had to get through.

It was after midnight, and Holdaway had lent him his office to do his reading. Normally he'd do it at home, but after spending so many goddamn depressing hours in that cramped apartment he didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to spend more than four hours a day at work, but the other cops knew how personal this was for him and were mum on the subject – and whenever Ferchetti walked by he ducked behind the desk. It was actually pretty relaxing. He'd found a few bottles of lukewarm German beer in Holdaway's desk, and had popped over to the corner store to buy some Fruit Brute. He was spilling cereal everywhere as he ate out of the box, but he didn't think Holdaway would mind. His office was a fucking pigsty.

There was a knock on the door, and Freddy looked up to see a young guy with ginger hair who looked vaguely familiar. Freddy had probably seen him around, but couldn't remember his name.

"Hey. You're Detective Freddy Newendyke, right?" the cop asked. He wore the thickest plastic-rimmed glasses Freddy had ever seen. Shit – glasses and red hair? The poor kid was probably tortured at school.

"That's me," said Freddy, wondering vaguely if there was a member of the force who fucking _didn't_ know who he was by now.

The young cop smiled and stuck out his hand. "I'm Jeffrey Andrews. You can call me Jeff." Freddy reached out and shook the proffered hand, though he'd be damned if he called the rookie by his first name. This kid's palm was damp; he was fucking nervous.

Andrews smiled and absently wiped his hand on his pants. "I'm helping with the Victor Vega case," he explained, placing a file carefully on the mess that was Holdaway's desk. "Mrs. McKlusky told me to give you this. It's everything we have on Vega after he was released from prison."

Freddy eyed the new file and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, but he sure as shit didn't want to go back to his apartment just yet. Besides, he may as well get to know this guy a little seeing as they'd be working together. "Could you summarise that for me, Andrews?" he asked tiredly.

The young cop blinked in surprise. "Oh… sure. Sure thing. And I prefer Jeff."

"I prefer Andrews," said Freddy, gesturing at the only other chair in the room. "Would you like a beer?" he asked, pulling a fresh bottle out of Holdaway's desk.

"Um… sure," said Andrews, accepting the drink hesitantly after taking a look around as if scared of getting in trouble. The offices were practically empty, and the blinds were closed. He sat down, looking like he was getting ready for his first job interview. Freddy could almost see the sweat beading on the guy's face. Shit, why was this kid so fucking anxious? Was it because of him? Were people saying things about him around the station?

Freddy dug into the cereal box and shoved a handful of Fruit Brute into his mouth, spilling some on his shirt. He motioned for Andrews to start.

The other cop cleared his throat. "Detective Newendyke? I just want to say it's a real honour to be working with you. I mean, I know about your undercover job, bringing down the Cabots, and –"

"Stop right there." Freddy was staring at the kid. So this explained the nervousness. Shit, the last thing he needed was a fucking fan. "Look Andrews," he said, "I'm the last guy you should be saying that shit to. If you know about the job, then you know it fucked up real fast and real bad. And thanks for bringing it up, by the way." The younger cop looked mortified. Good. "Now, could you just summarize that file?"

Andrews nodded. "Okay. Sure thing, man." He sat up straighter. "So, we already talked to Vega's parole officer Seymour Scagnetti. Vega was let out of the halfway house because he'd managed to get a legitimate job at a Long Beach warehouse as a dockworker."

"Cabot got it for him?" asked Freddy, lighting a cigarette.

Andrews nodded. "One of Cabot's people, anyway. This was a week before the robbery. He was clocked in and out every day. Scagnetti checked it out as soon as he heard, but was told by the foreman that Vega was out at the airstrip picking up a shipment. Pretty convenient, huh?"

"Who's the foreman?"

"Scagnetti said some guy called Matthews. We got nothin' on him, though, except a bad description – it's a dead end. The warehouse switched ownership twice since Cabot's death, and the current owners don't know shit. Records lost in a fire – it looked like arson. We don't know who gave Vega the job, and we don't know who associated with him in Long Beach. We got a couple guys making inquiries in the area, but so far nothing." Andrews gestured helplessly with his hands.

Freddy blew a smoke ring and propped his elbows on the desk. "Well that's just fuckin' great."

"Tell me about it."

They sat quietly for a minute, then suddenly Andrews stood up and slammed his fist into the wall. Freddy jumped to his feet, chair toppling over, cigarette fizzling out in a puddle of spilt beer. "Hey man, just calm down!" He grabbed Andrews by the arm, and the younger man took a few deep breaths and nodded. He took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt. He was blushing, and his red cheeks clashed with his ginger hair. "Now what was that about?" Freddy asked quietly. This was the weirdest guy he'd ever met. Except maybe Pink. Heck, Brown had been pretty weird too, the poor bastard.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Andrews. He put his glasses back on. "I dunno if you know – you probably don't – but I asked to be put on this case. You see, Marvin and I – you knew Marvin Nash, right?" Freddy nodded mutely. "Marvin and I were buddies. We went to the same school."

Freddy was slowly shaking his head. "Shit, I didn't know," he mumbled.

Andrews looked at him. "They told me he was killed by Edward Cabot, but a friend of mine in evidence found Marvin's blood on Vega's razor."

"Yeah," said Freddy quietly. "Yeah, that's right." He glanced at the young cop, who was looking at him hopefully. "Listen Andrews, I ain't gonna tell you what happened to Marvin in that warehouse, okay? But I will tell you one thing – he knew who I was, and he didn't rattle. Not even when he thought he was gonna die."

The other cop sank back down into his vacated chair and put his head in his hands. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, man," he said, and Freddy was embarrassed to hear the younger man's voice breaking. "He had a kid, you know that? Derek's less than a year old." Freddy looked away determinedly as Andrews took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "You know," said the young man when he had sufficiently recovered, "Irene's gonna want to talk to you. Marvin's wife," he explained at Freddy's puzzled look.

"Oh right," said Freddy. "Yeah, sometime later." _Much _later.

Andrews gave a bitter smile. "God, this is such a fucked up place. Why'd you want to be a cop anyway? It's like we're swimming against the tide."

For a moment Freddy considered telling him about Pete Kricher who had found him under the stairwell. But it was too soon for that. So he gave his second-most-truthful answer: "Guns."

Andrews laughed and stood up. "No shit. Anyway, it was good to finally meet you, man."

Left alone again, Freddy sat at Holdaway's desk and tried to return to work. Just forget about Jeffrey Andrews, and Marvin Nash, and Derek, and Irene. Sure, he said he'd see her later, but he didn't fancy a meeting with the widow of a man tortured by the psychopath he should have killed. Once this shit with Vega was over, then he could think about paying Mrs. Nash a visit. Maybe.

He lit a fresh cigarette as he continued to flip through the background information on Vega. Apparently Toothpick Vic's older brother Vincent Vega had been a suspected hitman working for gangster Marsellus Wallace. He'd been found dead in the apartment of champion prize-fighter Butch Coolidge, just four days after the robbery. Coolidge was still wanted for questioning, but couldn't be found.

Freddy pushed the file away. Both Vega brothers were a couple of crooked bastards, it seemed. He looked down at the smirking mug shot of Vic Vega, Toothpick Vic, Mr. Blonde. Then he whipped out his handgun and pressed the muzzle to the photo. Pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell back on an empty chamber.

_A/N: Jeffrey Andrews was the original name in the script for Marvin Nash. A lot of people think the events of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs took place on the same day, which is why there aren't any cops around in Pulp Fiction. I've gone along with that idea, with the hit by Vince and Jules and the Bonnie Situation taking place on the day of the robbery (during the Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend), and the Butch/Marsellus sequence occurring a few days later (on a Thursday, according to Maynard)._

_Questions? Comments? Leave a review!_


	8. Old Friends

**Chapter 8: Old Friends**

The officer scrutinized the name on the sheet. "Yeah, we got your message. There shouldn't be any problems. Mr. Koons is waiting for you inside, Detective." Freddy followed one of the guards to the door and waited as it was unlocked. It unsettled him, being at a prison. He could almost understand how a guy like Vega could go psycho after spending four years locked up in a place like this.

The man sitting on the other side of the table stared at him as the door closed with a loud bang. "Holy shit… _Orange_?"

Freddy gave a half-smile. "How's it goin', Mr. Pink?" he asked, dutifully returning the alias. Sheet or no sheet, this man was still Mr. Pink to him. White was Larry, and Blonde was now Vega, but Pink would always be Pink. "I didn't know you were from Brooklyn."

The other man looked exactly as Freddy remembered him, except he was dressed in prison blues now. Christ, he was even jiggling his leg up and down in that annoying way of his. At least being in prison controlled his daily caffeine and sugar intake.

"So Joe was right," said Pink with a sneer. "You were the fucking rat."

"Yup, I was the fucking rat," Freddy acknowledged as he sat down across from the crook.

Pink was nodding his head. "I knew there had to be someone setting us up, and I was fucking right too. I had a bad feeling about this job from the beginning, and I should've fucking walked if I had any sense, but I couldn't and didn't and now look where I am!" He took a breath and with some effort calmed down. "So you're a cop, huh?"

Freddy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "That's right."

"You were pretty fuckin' clever, man," said Pink, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "asking White what his name was when you were fuckin' bleeding to death and the good boy couldn't say no."

"I already knew his name."

There was a pause as the other man stared at him. "Well why the fuck did you ask him, then?"

Freddy shifted in his chair. The thing was uncomfortable as hell. "None of your fucking business," he shot back. "In case you hadn't noticed, Pink, I'm the one visiting you, which means I'm the one who should be asking questions."

"Well ask away then," Pink snorted, leaning back.

"In a minute." Freddy ran a hand through his hair as he thought about how to approach this. "You and I… we aren't the only survivors of the robbery," he said finally.

Pink's head jerked. "What?" he asked. "Who else is alive? Is it White? …Blonde? …Joe?"

"It's Blonde," said Freddy. But Pink was frowning thoughtfully. "You don't look too surprised," the cop observed.

The other man shrugged. "When the ambulances came I had to fucking wait while they called another one for me, because they were taking you, White, Blonde, and Joe to the hospital. Eddie and the cop were pronounced dead at the scene. So thanks to the four of you I had to fucking wait in the parking lot of that fucking warehouse while I bled from a fucking bullet hole in my leg!"

"Well boo fucking hoo," deadpanned Freddy. "I had to lie on the ground with a fucking gut shot, Pink."

"Yeah and whose fault was that you piece of shit?" the crook snarled. "Nice scar by the way, Officer Orange. Looks like some smart bastard tried to finish you off. Too bad he couldn't do the job, huh?"

Freddy's hand, which had gone unconsciously to the scar on his right cheek, slammed down on the top of the table. "Listen the fuck up!" he shouted. "Blonde broke out of the hospital while he was recovering. There's a crazy motherfucker on the loose, and all you can do is whine about what happened? Yes, I was the fucking rat, but I was doing my fucking job and so were you. I was sent to get Joe, and if Blonde hadn't gone fucking crazy in the store then none of this would've fucking happened!" He stopped shouting, and forced himself to calm down. "I need to get Blonde," he continued. "That's why I came here. I need all the information I can get."

"Can't help you man, cuz I don't know anything about Blonde," said Pink, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, was I the only one to follow the fucking rules during the job? I didn't tell anyone shit about me, and nobody fucking told me shit about them, all right? And even if I _did_ know something of value about Blonde, which I _don't_, I have no reason to tell _you_, of all people. If you want information, Orange, you gotta make it worth someone's while, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Nope, sorry," said Freddy. "I'm still stuck on the part where you say you don't know anything. Because if that's true, this was a waste of my fucking time." He started to stand up.

"Jesus Christ, wait a minute," said Pink, waving his hands back and forth. "That's not exactly what I meant. What I'm _saying_ is I don't know anything about Blonde in particular. But I knew Joe since I was a kid, which is a heck of a lot better than you. And if Blonde was one of Joe's boys, judging by what Eddie said, then I might know a few things that could be useful to you. But I won't tell you nothin' for free, get it?"

Freddy sat back down in his chair. "I get it," he said calmly. "But what exactly are you looking for in exchange for your cooperation?"

Pink glanced back and forth as if looking for eavesdroppers, although Freddy suspected it was more of a nervous habit than anything else. "Look man," he said quietly. "Prison hasn't really been kind to me, all right?"

"Come to the point, Pink. What d'you want?" said Freddy bluntly.

"Transfer. Minimum security."

"No."

"Low security?"

"No fuckin' way. I'll tell you what I _won't_ do, though," Freddy said, leaning forward. "I won't speak to the warden and tell him that you're withholding valuable information about a psychopath who's on the run. And I won't ask him to put you with a cellmate who could make your life a living hell. What's the matter, Pink?" he asked when the other man flinched. "You already met the butt cowboys in your block?"

Pink was scowling down at the tabletop. "_Shit_," he muttered.

"Start talking, motherfucker," said Freddy, "cuz it's your bony ass on the line."

"All right, all right." The other man looked up at him. "What do you wanna know?"

Freddy reached into his jacket pocket and took out two cigarettes, holding one out to Pink. After he had lit them both, he said, "Blonde was one of Cabot's boys, you're right about that. So if one of 'em was arrested, what would Joe do after they got outta prison?"

Pink took a shaky drag on his cigarette. "Usually the parole officer could be bribed, and the guy would be working for Joe again in no time."

"And if that didn't work? Like, if his PO was a real prick and the guy had to get a job before he could leave the halfway house?"

"Shit, Joe owned lots of companies. He owned places everywhere. He could get his boys a legitimate job at any one of 'em, and once they moved out on their own they'd be back to knocking down doors and shooting people up or whatever the fuck it was they did."

Freddy tapped ash onto the floor. "So who would organize these jobs?"

"Whoever owned the company was in Joe's back pocket. And Joe knew guys who knew people – I mean they had connections. People he could trust, y'know?"

"Yeah? Like who?"

Pink rubbed a hand through his hair. "I dunno how safe I am telling you this, Orange. Some of these guys are still at large."

"Yeah, but you're nice and safe in here now. I just want the Long Beach area. Gimme names, and if I know 'em I know 'em." Freddy tried not to show how excited he was. This was it. If he could find one of these guys, and if their connections were as extensive as Pink was making it sound, then maybe they could tell him something about Vega's old employer Matthews. And if Freddy could find Vega's old employer, then he could find Vega. A man on the run who has lost most of his contacts doesn't have many places to go.

"I don't know many of Joe's connections in Long Beach," Pink was saying. "Only two or three. There was a pimp, Rick Gladstein, but I think he's retired. Living in Indonesia or something. And a guy named Willis, who they call Hellboy. Mean son of a bitch I heard, but he knows his business."

"What business is that?" asked Freddy.

"Drug business. He supplied all of Joe's boys for a special price. And I also heard of some robber in the area. Michael something. Did a lot of work for Joe and his boys; they called him Long Beach Mike."

Freddy nearly choked on the smoke he was inhaling. "Long Beach Mike?" he repeated. "You sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure," said Pink, but Freddy was no longer listening. This might be the lead they were looking for. Long Beach Mike had given Joe his referral, and had been instrumental in getting Freddy on the inside. He didn't know where he was now, but Holdaway sure as shit would. Freddy got up and hurried to the door, leaving a baffled Mr. Pink behind him and surprising Andrews who was waiting outside.

_A/N: In the movie when Freddy tells White he's a cop, you can hear what happens to Mr. Pink in the background: he has difficulty starting a car, then there's gunfire and the cops move in and arrest him. Right after Freddy makes his big admission, you can hear Pink shouting, "Don't shoot! I've been shot, goddamn it!" at the cops. He sounds more pissed than in pain. So yes, poor Pink went to jail. I wonder if anyone recognized his "real" last name?_


	9. Long Beach Mike

**Chapter 9: Long Beach Mike**

"Hey kid, I did my part already. I got you on the inside, and I backed you up a long fucking way. Isn't that enough?"

"Nope," said Freddy.

They were sitting in the basement suite that the man known as Long Beach Mike called home. It was even messier than Freddy's apartment, decorated with the detritus accumulated from a life of crime. Antique clocks vied for place on the walls with photographs of Hollywood stars and dusty oil paintings. The mismatched tables sported a jumble of picture frames, lacquered boxes, silverware, and electronics. Unclaimed, forgotten mementos from thousands of jobs stretching back through the years.

Holdaway had been quick to locate Long Beach Mike, and due to Freddy's previous acquaintance with the criminal, Ferchetti had given him permission to conduct the interview – on the condition that he bring along the rookie, Jeffrey Andrews, to "show him the ropes". Knowing that he was lucky to even be doing fieldwork at this point, Freddy had agreed to the terms. Marvin's old friend had driven the car, chatted about his first month with the Detective Bureau, and generally been a goddamn nuisance the entire trip.

Right now Andrews was perched nervously on the edge of a polished maple chair, eyes behind thick lenses flicking back and forth between the other two men. Freddy wouldn't have been surprised if he took out a pencil and started to take notes. Even in plainclothes he had "cop" written all over him.

"Look Freddy, I like you. But you've gotta understand my situation. I've been identified by my old crowd as a sell-out, getting your ass onto Cabot's team. And now you tell me one of Cabot's boys is on the loose?" Mike ran a hand over his balding head. "Christ, kid, I can't get involved in this. You understand that."

Freddy smiled. "I understand that there's a psychopath runnin' loose, and that we got no leads – except for you. C'mon, Mike," he said in his friendliest tone of voice. "You know everything that happened in Long Beach. Vega had a fake job there as a dockworker. Just tell me about the foreman, this Matthews guy."

The older man shook his head. "No can do, Freddo. Just because the Cabots are dead doesn't mean that everyone who worked for 'em just up and disappeared. I've already done enough to antagonize 'em. I just want to be left alone."

"Don't preach that shit to me, Mike," said Freddy amicably. "You came to us because you were knee-deep in a situation that you couldn't handle. So we helped you out, like friends do." His smile faded, voice suddenly turned to steel. "The fact is, you owed Joe Cabot more money than the state lottery, and your only way out was to side with the cops. Face it Mike, you're a turncoat, a traitor, a motherfucking sell-out. We own your ass now. You're in no position to make demands."

Long Beach Mike sighed deeply and looked down at his scarred and calloused hands. He didn't look like a guy with a long and colourful history of armed robbery. Sitting in a brocade armchair with his feet in mismatched slippers, he looked like a tired old man.

"Holdaway's been teaching you, huh?" Mike observed. He was quiet for a moment. "The man you're looking for is Danny Matthews. Handled a lot of cover-ups for Cabot's boys. Since Joe's death they transferred the warehouse to new ownership, and he's been living in Inglewood."

Freddy stood up, and Andrews followed suit. "Thanks, Mike," he said quietly. "Appreciate it."

"Might not help you, though," the old crook remarked. "Chances are Vega left LA in the dust a while back."

"I'm not so sure," said Freddy, but did not elaborate. He extended his hand, and the other man shook it. He had stared at the scar on Freddy's face when they first arrived, but hadn't asked any questions. He was a good guy. A crooked bastard, but still a good guy.

Andrews opened his mouth to say something, but Freddy shook his head, and they left the basement in silence. Andrews managed to hold his tongue until they got into his Chevy. "That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," Freddy confirmed, winding down the window and propping his elbow on the sill.

"I think we could've gotten more outta him," Andrews was saying as he pulled away from the kerb. "A guy like that – he's gotta know about nearly every illegal operation in the city, if not the state."

Freddy reclined in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Probably. But a guy like that won't tell you everything unless he's suicidal. Sooner or later word will spread that he's a police informant and – bam! – no more Long Beach Mike. And finding some motherfucker who will sell out his buddies ain't no walk in the park. Once you have him in your back pocket, you gotta be careful about it, and only ask him what you need."

Andrews was nodding his head like a fucking idiot. Freddy was getting sick of the kid treating him like some veteran big shot cop. Sure, he'd been undercover, but he managed to get himself shot in the head, and god knows how many cops and civilians killed. Freddy was definitely no hero.

"So now we find this Danny Matthews," said the younger man. "You think he'll be of any help to us?"

"Maybe. Think about it. Vega escapes from the hospital with nothing. No proper clothes, no money, no anything. His employer is dead and the rest of the gang is in hiding, tryin' to figure out what the fuck to do and how much they've been compromised. Vega only just got out of jail, so his contacts are null and void. Where can he go for help?"

"And you think he went to Matthews?"

Freddy tapped ash out of the window. "The only people the motherfucker's seen since his release, who haven't gone underground, are the ones associated with his fake job. They have to put up a legitimate front, right? So if Vega got outta the hospital and found out that the Cabots were dead, he mighta gone to his old employer."

Andrews was frowning. "Yeah, but he moved."

"Doesn't mean Vega wouldn't know how to find him," said Freddy impatiently.

The other cop fell silent. About fucking time. Freddy found his thoughts drifting to another occasion he'd ridden shotgun in a car with the windows rolled down. Larry had just gone over the job layout with him, and then unsettled the hell out of him by that cold-blooded monologue on how to handle people who made trouble.

"_...cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb's next. After that he'll tell you if he wears lady's underwear."_

Then –

"_I'm hungry. Let's get a taco."_

Christ, how could a guy like Larry be such a ruthless motherfucker? Freddy had read the profile – juvenile problems stemming from a background of abuse and alcoholic parents. Parents divorced at age three, mother dead at age eight. But this guy had been a pro. More than that, he'd been a likeable guy, a good guy. He'd stood up for Freddy against Joe, and what had he gotten in return? A bullet in the chest, and the knowledge that his friend had been working to bring them all down.

Freddy took a long drag on his cigarette, trying in vain to think about something else. He wished to god he had never taken that job. He wished he was still a naïve motherfucker like Andrews who believed that cops were good and robbers were bad and there was no middle ground. But he wasn't.

The headache was sudden and so intense that Freddy found himself fighting down nausea.

He bent over until his head was nearly between his fucking knees, and Andrews' panicked voice asking him what was the matter sent pain slicing through his skull. Fumbling in his pocket for the jar of pills, twisting off the cap somehow, spilling capsules all over the floor of the car. Grab two and shove 'em into his mouth. No water, so it's dry-swallow and close his eyes, keeping his head down, concentrating on his breathing… If Ferchetti ever saw him like this he would lose his job.

"Freddy? You okay, man?"

"Shut the fuck up," Freddy grated out between his teeth. Andrews obeyed, thank god, and Freddy pressed his hands against the sides of his head. Squeeze out the pain. This wasn't the worst headache he'd experienced. It would fade soon.

Twenty minutes later Freddy was leaning back in the car seat, pale and clammy but otherwise recovered. They were sitting in the parking lot of the police station, and Andrews was looking at him as if he were a bomb about to go off.

"I'm all right now," Freddy managed to say. Andrews looked sceptical, but was smart enough to not say anything. "Just a headache," Freddy explained. Andrews nodded, and they got out of the car.

Freddy straightened his clothes, and they walked towards the door of the station. "And Andrews?" he said quietly. The younger man turned to face him. "You tell anyone about this, and I swear to fucking god I'll blow you away. That ain't no joke. Got it?"

Andrews swallowed. "Sure, Freddy. I got it."

_A/N: I got Larry's background information (abuse, parents, etc.) from the "Background Check" deleted scene, freezing a shot of the computer screen when it shows his profile. Apparently our Mr. White has an aversion to cats. And headaches are a common problem after suffering a brain injury such as, oh I don't know, a bullet to the head._


	10. Night Wanderings

**Chapter 10: Night Wanderings**

Freddy knew it had been too good to last. Captain Ferchetti had called him into his office, sat him down, and explained that he had been very generous with Freddy, letting him visit a prison inmate and question Long Beach Mike. But that was enough fieldwork for now, and he ought to stay behind his desk for the next little while. Rest and recuperate and all that shit.

Of course, Freddy hadn't taken this fatherly advice very well, so their civil conversation had escalated into a heated argument until Frankie basically shouted at him to go home and get some rest. And so it was that Freddy, feeling rebellious and itching to escape his apartment, had set off for a long walk on the streets of LA.

Andrews had gone with another cop to visit the foreman, Danny Matthews, and Holdaway had called Freddy's cell phone in the afternoon to tell him what they'd found out. Freddy's hunch had been right. Vega had visited Matthews three months ago, asked for money and gotten it, but not before Matthews got a good look at the car he was driving – not his old Coupe, and obviously a stolen vehicle. They were trying to locate it right now. Nobody was optimistic that they would find it, but Freddy had a feeling Vega was still hanging around LA. It was just the sort of calm psycho thing he would do.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and walked down the street. It was dark now, but he wasn't paying attention to where he was going anyway. It thus came as a complete surprised when he looked up and saw a bar on the street corner. And not just any bar: Smokey Pete's. He was in Gardena.

Freddy's legs were trembling as he stepped inside. True to its name the bar was filled with cigarette smoke. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink, and the red lighting alone was enough to bring him back to the night he had met Larry.

They had been sitting at a table by the dance floor. Eddie had introduced him to Joe as "our Mr. Orange", and Freddy had shit a pile of bricks as Joe asked him questions: where was he from, who did he know, how'd he meet Nice Guy Eddie, had he done time, shit like that. Then Joe had asked if he'd done armed robbery before. Freddy had rattled off his rehearsed answer: he'd robbed a few gas stations, sold some weed, and held the shotgun as he and Long Beach Mike pulled down a poker game in Portland. Nice Guy Eddie called Mike up then and there to check it out, Freddy waiting dry-mouthed with fear, and the old crook had come through and backed him up. And then it was time. Freddy had told the commode story.

That meeting had been Freddy's chance to make an impression on Joe. He'd chosen his clothes carefully: not his regular plaid shirt and faded jeans, and definitely not his Speed Racer t-shirts. He had to be accepted by these guys. He had to be confident. He had to be fucking _cool_. The leather jacket became a costume for him, dressing the part of a young street tough wanting to make it big. And the ring, of course. Pete Kricher's old wedding ring. He remembered Holdaway's words: _"Married men get more respect, Newendyke. Know why? Cuz it means at least one bitch is willing to put up with you. It also means you're probably gettin' some every night."_

After delivering the commode story he'd felt exhilarated. He'd been in the zone, confident, cocky even. But that was okay; he was supposed to be the rookie ready to start playing with the big boys. And then Joe had told him he was in. Over the first hurdle; now he had to get to work. When Joe had lumbered off to the boy's room, and Eddie had left to settle the tab, Freddy was left alone with the enigmatic Mr. White.

"_You like sports, White? Football, baseball?"_

They had both been smoking, sitting elbow to elbow and sharing an ashtray.

"_Sure. Football never interested me. Bunch of guys runnin' around in fuckin' leotards. But baseball – now that's a real American sport."_

Then Mr. White had let slip that he liked to bet on the games. Made watching it more exciting, with a little money on the line.

"_You ever win?"_

"_A few times. Matter of fact, I won last night."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Brewers. Made a killing off 'em."_

"_Shit, only a guy from Wisconsin would bet on the Brewers."_

"_Yeah, but when it pays off, it pays off big time."_

Chatting about the Milwaukee Brewers, Freddy had concentrated on keeping his head, staying slick, hiding his excitement. You couldn't help but respect the older guy. He was obviously a pro, but he was easy to talk to – and was clearly warming to him. A good sign. Their conversation came to an end when Eddie returned and told Freddy it was time to go. And that was that. Riding shotgun in Eddie's car, Freddy couldn't wait to see Holdaway and tell him the good news.

"Hey, buddy. You want another drink?"

Freddy looked up, blinking in confusion. The bartender was looking at him expectantly.

"Yeah, gimme another." The doctors had warned him to stay away from alcohol, but that hadn't stopped him from having the occasional beer. The only time he'd gotten properly drunk since the coma, he'd smashed up his apartment, but that memory wasn't stopping him tonight.

Freddy sighed and sipped his second drink. He'd been so fucking ignorant four months ago, standing in this very bar, performing for Joe and Eddie and Larry. He'd been a stupid little motherfucker, hadn't had a fucking clue how it would all end. Hadn't known that the robbery would get all fucked up, or that he'd go through the worst physical pain of his life, bleeding and thrashing against a child's carseat. That he'd shoot a civilian, a woman. Or that he'd end up betraying a friend, one of the best men he'd ever known.

"_Come on pal, we gotta go."_

"_Not now… It fucking hurts, Larry."_

"_I know. But you can't stay out here in the car. I'll help you. It's only a few steps."_

_Terrible pain in his belly. Legs buckling underneath him. Voice wavering out of control._

"_I can't! I can't do it…"_

"_Stand up, kid. C'mon, stand up."_

"_I killed her, Larry… I can't believe I killed someone. Oh, shit…"_

"_Hey, it's okay –"_

"_I fucking shot her, man…"_

"_Don't think about that. Just walk for me. Can you do that?"_

_Step after painful step –_

"_Just hold on, kid. Hold on."_

– _then a pause while Larry kicked the door open._

"_Look where we are… Look where we are, we're in a warehouse–"_

"_Larry… She had a baby, man… She had a baby."_

Freddy sighed and picked up his drink. "To Larry," he whispered, and emptied his glass. He signalled to the bartender to bring him another. Shit, he was gonna get drunk tonight. It wasn't fair, him still being here. He'd killed an innocent woman. He'd betrayed Larry; he should have died. Larry should have killed him properly. Countless murders to Lawrence Dimick's name, and he couldn't kill a man who'd already been shot twice.

His thoughts became less turbulent after the third drink. Alcohol affected him more acutely since his head injury. The doctors had mentioned something about the blood-brain barrier, but Freddy hadn't been listening. He'd been no lightweight before, so this was fucking embarrassing, seeing things after only three fucking drinks. And he had to be seeing things, because Larry simply couldn't be sitting next to him at the bar.

Freddy stared at the arm leaning on the countertop, trying to get it properly in focus. Larry's right arm had a tiger tattoo on it, and so did this one. Or did it? Squinting in the red light, Freddy realized that the tattoo was a snake, not a tiger. And Larry's arm had never been that pale or slender. And Larry had certainly never worn nail polish.

Looking up, Freddy got a look at the real owner of the arm. A cute little Oriental chick wearing a cute little dress. About as physically far from Larry as you could get. She looked over, and caught him staring at her. The music was pounding in his ears. The alcohol was making him light-headed and reckless. He smiled. The girl smiled back.

Freddy's cell phone rang, forcing them to stop checking each other out. "Shit," he muttered, fumbling in his jacket pocket. He quickly paid for his drinks. With an apologetic look at the girl, he edged past her and made for the door.

The night air was cold, and Freddy cursed as he took out the phone. "Yeah?"

"Hey Freddy, man. It's Jim."

"What's up?" asked Freddy, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. "It better be damn important."

"It _is_ damn important. You know the car Vega was driving?"

Freddy stopped in his tracks. He was instantly sober.

"…It's been spotted."

"I'm on my way," said Freddy, already waving down a cab.

_A/N: The little description of what happened when Freddy met Joe (where he was from, where he'd done time, he'd robbed some gas stations, etc.) is from the original script. The last two lines of "memory dialogue" are from the movie, of course. Questions? Comments? Leave a review!_


	11. Radio Waves

**Chapter 11: Radio Waves**

"Pass me a smoke, will you? Shit, you got _me_ worried now."

Freddy dug a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and threw it across to Holdaway. The older man caught it deftly.

"Nothing's gonna happen, Freddy," he said as he lit up.

Freddy laughed. "Who're you tryin' to convince?"

They were sitting in the room Holdaway called his "study", but which was actually just a place for the guy to kick back and chill after a day at work. There were stacks of CD's, sports posters covering the walls, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and a desk buried somewhere under a mountain of incomplete paperwork. Freddy and Holdaway were sprawled in the chairs drinking beer and listening to music, with the police radio sitting on the table between them.

Freddy had been blowing smoke rings to hide his nervousness, but apparently Holdaway had picked up on it. Vega's car had been found in the underground lot of an apartment complex, where they believed he was staying under a fake name. Cops were waiting there right now to apprehend him when he showed up. Freddy, of course, had been ordered to stay behind. To make sure that he didn't run off or do anything stupid, Holdaway had invited him over to his place to listen to events as they unfolded over the radio.

So far nothing had happened, but the silence made Freddy more nervous than ever. He took his gun out of its holster and ran his hand over the smooth metal. His fingers twitched into action, and automatically he checked the weapon, the familiar sequence of mechanical movements calming him somewhat.

Holdaway looked up and nearly choked on his cigarette. "Put that fucking thing away, man!" he exclaimed, coughing. "One of the kids could walk through the door and see you. What's the _matter_ with you?"

"Sorry, Jim." Through the door of the "study" Freddy could hear the three little Holdaways squealing over the TV, which seemed to be playing some sort of cartoon show. He could also hear Mrs. Holdaway washing the supper dishes, banging pots and pans as if they were fucking bongo drums. This was one noisy household.

"You were real lucky to get on this case, my man," remarked Holdaway as he cracked open two more beers. "Frankie didn't wanna give it to you. Thought it might be too personal."

"Yeah? What'd you tell him?" Freddy asked, accepting his drink. He'd known for a long time that Holdaway had been the one who convinced Frankie to put him on the case.

Holdaway shrugged. "Said you knew more about Vega than anyone else. Said you wouldn't be doin' no street work, not after just getting outta the hospital. You'd only be workin' as a researcher, and maybe an adviser, you know? Said no way would you make this personal, cuz you were too damn smart for that. Dunno if he believed me or not."

"You really said all that?" asked Freddy, gratified.

"Yeah, I fuckin' did. I knew how much this meant to you, all right? So don't you make me a fuckin' liar, Newendyke."

Freddy looked thoughtfully at the dusty bottle in his hand. "Thanks, Jim," he said quietly.

The other man nodded. "Anytime. Hell, if it was up to me you'd get a fuckin' medal for what you did. But it ain't up to me."

"Yeah, Frankie Ferchetti wasn't too impressed by my testimony," Freddy remarked. "And I don't blame him. The job became a fuckin' mess, Jim." He stopped himself before he could say anything more. "Mess" was an understatement. Dead cops, dead robbers, dead civilians… dead woman in the car. Lying in the back and covered in blood, he'd been thrashing against a carseat. She'd been a mother, for Christ's sake. The others he could blame on Vega being a fucking madman and causing the job to crash and burn. But the woman was his fault, nobody else's. There were at least two little kids who had lost parents that day.

Holdaway seemed to notice his dark mood. In any case, he coughed and said lightly, "Frankie wanted to put you back on patrol, but I managed to convince him it'd be too stressful for you."

Freddy forced a smile, wrenching his thoughts away from the dark paths they were taking. "More stressful than this?" He gestured at the police radio, and they both laughed.

"At least you're back to normal now, Freddo," Holdaway remarked. "Shit, back on the job after a fuckin' bullet to the head. Now _that's_ dedication." Freddy glanced away; he hadn't told him about the headaches. In fact, nobody knew how serious they really were. Except Jeffrey Andrews, but that kid was too fucking scared of him to say a word, thank god.

"Kids!" Mrs. Holdaway bellowed, her voice carrying over the music, the banging pots, the cartoon show, and the children shrieking. "Time for bed!"

There was instant uproar from the junior Holdaways.

"Aw, _Mom_!"

"Couldn't we just stay –"

"– show's not over yet!"

"Excuse me," said their father through gritted teeth, and pushed himself up from his chair. He marched over to the door of the study, yanked it open and stuck his head out. "Listen to your mother!" he roared like a fucking dinosaur. "Now _go to bed_!"

There was some mutinous muttering, then footsteps and slamming doors indicated that the children had done as they were told. Freddy had to hide a smile as Holdaway came stomping back, looking pissed as hell and wearing his "All American Dad" t-shirt.

"Sorry 'bout that," he huffed as he threw himself back into his chair. "Fuckin' kids…"

Freddy grinned, ignoring the dirty glare that his friend shot his way.

Holdaway's eyes narrowed further; he remembered something. "I ever tell you what else went down in LA the day of the robbery?" he asked.

"Nope." Freddy lowered his bottle and leaned forward to listen. Anything to distract him from that fucking silent radio.

"It was fucked up, man. Bright and early, some neighbours in an apartment reported hearing gunshots, and we find three guys full of holes. Professional job, bullets all over the fuckin' place. Then we get a call, someone saw a car driving down the street in broad daylight with blood splattered all over the inside of the windows. That was a bust – couldn't find the car any fuckin' where. And then a bunch of pissy coffee shop customers phone in yakking about a couple who stole their wallets, and some black guy who talked 'em down at gunpoint. And all this in the morning."

Freddy blinked, trying to process the idea that such fucked-up stuff had been happening while he had been on the job. "Holy shit."

"Uh-huh." Holdaway nodded. "The triple homicide mighta been ordered by Marsellus Wallace, but we couldn't pin it on him. Hell, it could've been done by the other Vega brother. Y'know, Vincent, before he got blasted to Kingdom come."

They were companionably silent for a moment, then: "There's somethin' I wondered about Vega." Holdaway's voice was quiet and thoughtful, and Freddy looked at him questioningly, motioning for him to continue. "It's been – what? – three months since he escaped? Well why the fuck did he stay in LA all that time?"

Freddy ran a hand through his hair. "I think he's been lying low, recovering, building up his strength, that sort of thing. Also, he did four years for Cabot, and they fuckin' owe him. I think he might've been hangin' around hoping that one of Cabot's top people would take over the business and hire him back."

"Hell, we haven't heard shit from them," said Holdaway. "Cabot's goons, they've been layin' _real_ low. Probably in a fuckin' panic, figuring out what to do. And with Joe and Nice Guy dead, there's no clear-cut leader anymore. Not that we know of, anyway."

He was interrupted by a sudden burst of static. The police radio crackled into life: "Vega's in sight. Repeat, Vega is in sight."

Instantly the two of them were out of their chairs, crouching by the table and practically gluing their ears to the radio's speakers. It was about twenty years old, and the voices were tinny and distorted, but it was still serviceable. Freddy's spilt beer was soaking into the carpet, but they didn't notice.

"We're moving in," the voice murmured, and for a minute they listened anxiously to the crackling static, not daring to breathe. Freddy absently butted out his cigarette on the table leg.

From the radio came muffled voices, then garbled shouting – and ringing gunfire. Freddy and Holdaway stared at each other in horror. Something had gone terribly wrong, but they couldn't hear shit. It was complete chaos.

"Officer down, officer down!" the voice screeched out, suddenly intelligible. Even warped by the ancient radio, it carried a note of panic. "Request backup… Repeat, request backup… Vega is fleeing on foot…"

Freddy didn't wait to hear any more. He was on his feet and sprinting for the door.

"_Freddy_!"

He stopped and turned to face Holdaway, his hand already on the doorknob. His friend was still kneeling by the radio.

"I gotta go, Jim," he said urgently, shifting his feet, unable to stand still. "He can't get away. He just can't –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Freddy. Wait a minute." Holdaway raised his hands in a placating gesture, attempting to sound reasonable.

"_Fuck_ that," Freddy spat. "I'm done waiting. I know what this psychopathic motherfucker can do, and I'm not gonna just sit here and let him fucking escape all over again."

And with that he turned the knob, threw the door open, and dashed out into the hall. He could hear Jim shouting at him to come back, but he was determined. It was time to take down Vic fucking Vega.

_A/N: God Freddy, don't do anything stupid. Anyway, some people believe that the events of _Reservoir Dogs_ and _Pulp Fiction_ took place on the same day, and this explains why there aren't any cops in Pulp Fiction. Also, in a deleted scene Holdaway was indeed wearing an "All American Dad" t-shirt. And I did pause the movie and check for a wedding ring, just to make sure. Interesting family man. He's got to be the coolest dad ever._


	12. Face to Face

**Chapter 12: Face to Face**

The parking lot of the apartment complex was a nightmare spectacle of panicked confusion. Sirens roared in the distance, and patrol cars flashed red and blue in the dark. Paramedics were already on the scene. From what Freddy could see, at least three men had been shot.

A grizzled police officer was hastily organizing teams to pursue Vega, but Freddy steered clear of him. Instead, he scanned the crowd by the road and quickly spotted Jeffrey Andrews sitting on the kerb. The rookie was staring at the ground in shock, his uniform bloody where he had cradled the head of one of the wounded. The injured cop was being loaded into a nearby ambulance, and for the moment the kid was being ignored.

Freddy crouched down by the young officer. "Hey, it's me, Freddy," he said quietly. "Where'd he go?"

The rookie stared up at him almost without recognition, and mutely pointed at a dim alleyway.

Freddy walked rapidly to the corner, glanced over his shoulder, and broke into a run. His shoes pounded on the cracked asphalt, and the cold air whistled through his nostrils. The alleyway was too narrow for vehicles, so the cops must have sent their patrol cars to cover the surrounding roads, setting up a perimeter in an attempt to cut off the fugitive.

The alley ended in a tall chain link fence. Lights were flicking on in the apartment buildings on either side of him, and he could hear muffled voices as police knocked on doors and searched the rooms. Freddy's mind flashed back to the morning of the robbery. In the diner, perusing the menus. They had been talking about fleeing the cops.

"_I don't like to hide," Blonde remarked serenely, glancing over the menu._

"_Even if everything's been fucked up?" asked Pink. His fingers were tapping the rim of his coffee cup. Annoying as hell. "Sometimes that's all you can do, man."_

_Blonde nodded. "Yeah, even then. I like to walk out of a place on my own terms… I think I'll have the waffles."_

Vega wasn't hiding. The cops were wasting their fucking time hunting through those fucking apartments. Freddy scrambled up the chain link fence and dropped heavily to the other side. Gravel scraped under his feet; he was in a parking lot. His eyes scanned the walls covered in graffiti, the isolated pools of light around the lampposts, the rusting body of an old Cadillac. Beyond the parking lot, cars were speeding up and down a busy road.

He sprinted across the empty lot, darting by the lampposts, and skidded to a stop when he reached the sidewalk. His head swung from side to side as he searched frantically for Vega. He could still hear the sirens, and all around him people were muttering to each other, pausing to look around, wondering what the fuck was going on with the cops this time. He heard whispers about gunshots. Expressions of curiosity and apprehension were on every face. But there, way down near the very end of the block, walked a lone figure in a long coat. Casual, unhurried. Like a shark peacefully cruising through a sea of unease.

Freddy ran to catch up, zigzagging in and out of the late-night pedestrians, ignoring the gasps and curses as he dashed by, running flat out. His lungs were burning by the time he drew near enough to gasp: "Hey! Hey you! Hey – _Vega_!"

The man halted in his tracks and turned around. It was Vic Vega. In the yellow glow of a streetlamp his face was unnervingly calm. Still the same old psychopath. But he had changed, too. Gone was his cocky stride; he was hunched over slightly, and there was a slight wheezing in his breath. Freddy vividly remembered firing, hitting the guy twice in the chest.

"Hey Orange," the man said casually. "Nice scar." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. Charming bastard.

Freddy consciously stopped himself from raising his hand to his cheek, and assessed the situation, taking the moment to catch his breath. They were standing on the sidewalk of a busy road. There were people all around them. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance, but it would take some time for the patrol cars to arrive. It was up to him.

"It's been a while," Freddy remarked as soon as he stopped panting, keeping his voice as light as possible. He couldn't take out his gun and open fire on this guy like he really, _really_ wanted to – not in such a public place with so many innocent bystanders. But Vega was wearing a firearm under his coat, and Freddy wouldn't hesitate to make a move if he tried anything.

Vega rubbed his temple lightly with his thumb. "Y'know, I've been meaning to thank you."

"For what?" asked Freddy, instantly on his guard.

"For stopping me from burning the cop. That woulda been bad, right? I mighta regretted it after the fact."

"No problem," Freddy replied sarcastically. He was just itching to smash in Vega's smirking face. The guy was playing with him. "Glad I spared you the guilt."

Vega smiled in that friendly, disarming, utterly chilling way of his. "Yeah, you took it all for yourself."

"You're trying to unsettle me. It won't work."

"I ain't gonna unsettle you, Orange." Vega peered up at the streetlamp as if contemplating its light. "Just putting the responsibility where it belongs."

Freddy clenched his teeth. That was the thought that had driven him to slash his wrists in the hospital, the thought that he was somehow responsible. He knew better now. "Okay, Vega," he said quietly. "I admit it. I was the rat. I was the fuckin' bad guy. But what happened wasn't my fault." He took an unconscious step closer to the other man, determinedly holding his gaze. "If everything had gone as planned, Joe woulda been arrested, and the rest of you woulda gotten good deals to testify against him. Nobody was gonna get hurt. But things didn't go as planned, and you know why? Because you started to fuckin' shoot everybody! So if that fuckin' bloodbath is anyone's responsibility, it's yours."

Vega blinked, then laughed softly. "That was very dramatic." Freddy glared. "I almost broke a sweat, that was so convincing."

"Yeah, very funny, motherfucker."

The sirens were louder now, and Vega's eyes flickered. He was going to do something, Freddy just knew it. He was going to try to get away. He couldn't get away. Oh god, he couldn't get away. "Vega," said Freddy, real quiet. "Don't do anything stupid." He unhooked the cuffs from his belt.

The other man grinned. "What, you're gonna arrest me?"

Freddy transferred the cuffs to his left hand and took a small step closer. Vega's grin vanished, and that was all the warning he gave.

There was a sudden gunshot. People screamed. The cuffs clattered onto the sidewalk and Freddy dropped to the ground, curling around his wounded foot. He drew his gun, but a black cowboy boot came stomping down on his wrist, pinning it to the pavement. _Shit._

"That hurt a little bit?"

The adrenaline was driving away the pain, and Freddy started to notice things with an intense clarity. The yellow-orange glow of the streetlamp. The lights of a helicopter as it passed overhead. The shiny black barrel of a 9mm as it was aimed directly between his eyes. Freddy licked his dry lips. He wouldn't survive this one.

As he lay on the ground waiting for death, he felt an odd sense of calm. Vega was smiling at him, tranquil as ever. The people around them seemed to blur into a great wash of colour and an unintelligible babble. And Vega pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell back on an empty chamber.

"Fuck…" Vega rummaged in his pockets for spare ammunition. Freddy blinked, and it was as if the world started to move again. The sirens were growing louder. Vega glanced up, squinting, calculating, and in an instant a decision was made. He turned and disappeared into the night.

It could have been seconds or hours before the police cars came screeching down the road. People who hadn't screamed and run for cover were crowding around him, asking if he was okay. A young cop helped him sit up – Andrews.

"Freddy! Jesus, what the fuck happened to your foot?"

"Vega…"

"Yeah, some cops are going after him right now." The rookie peered off to the side, squinting through his glasses.

"They won't catch him."

Andrews looked down at him sympathetically. The kid obviously thought he was raving. "It's okay, Freddy," he soothed. "Just relax, man."

Freddy lay back, content to let himself be taken care of for the time being. He would put up with their treatment, their medication, their therapy, whatever the fuck they wanted. He would do it all. He would recover. And when he did, he would go look for Vega, and wouldn't stop looking until that fucking madman was either dead or behind bars.

"The ambulance will be here soon, Freddy. You're gonna be okay."

Freddy gave a grim, hard smile. "I know I am."

**End.**

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Yeah, I know. I just manipulated events so all my favourite characters (Orange, Blonde, Pink) would get out of this alive. But as you may have suspected, a sequel is in the works. If you'd be interested in reading it, please tell me so and I'll post it.  
_


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